


Redemption

by Emperor



Category: Wreck-It Ralph (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emperor/pseuds/Emperor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sugar Rush's new president has a much bigger heart than it's previous reigning monarch and decides to give him another chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title just for laughs: White and Red, but Totally Not Dead, Redemption
> 
> Keeping Turbo IC for this was kiiiiinda tough, hope I did alright. (So, might contain possible OOC-ness)

So this was what it was like to truly die. There was nothing but agony, a great, endless pain that seared through every pixel of the tiny man’s body. It was continuous and uninterrupted by the sweet release of a checkpoint or of a bright, flashing Game Over screen. There would be no solace, no new beginning. The code he’d written for himself was gone, erased during the reset, so once his injuries bled him away completely – as they’d already done to his hybrid-form and his cleverly coded disguise – it would be the end for Turbo.

Dying for what he loved – racing and, of course, his lust for attention – was a noble cause, but to go so pathetically was disgusting. Stupid bug-brain and its need for the false beacon. So much for being Turbotastic.

He could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears, but he could make out the sudden sound of shifting rubble, the pitter-patter of pebbles dancing down an incline, and then, finally, the thud of footfalls on the chocolate-coated ground. A blurry veil hung over his injured eyes, obscuring his view of the new arrivals, but he knew they meant no salvation for him. He had no allies here anymore. If they were here to have their revenge before he was gone, he wouldn’t blame them either. He knew what it was like to be usurped from his throne and the rage that came with it.

Perhaps the bombshell broad would shoot him, put one of her bullets right through his bruised forehead, just below the brim of his helmet. Or perhaps that hulking fellow with the monstrous hands was here to choke the life out of him, or crush him to a pulp beneath his massive fists. Whatever their means of ending him were, Turbo hoped it would be swift. He wanted to at least be granted that dignity.

“You sure about this?” It was a male voice clouded with tones of apprehension. “I mean, are you really sure about this?”

“Oh, yes!” The chipper exclamation of a child. “Very sure! It will work, won’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m sure it will, but –”

“No butts, doodoo brain. I’m the President around here, so I make the rules. We’re doing it. Now go get him for me.”

Turbo’s assumptions were right, it seemed. They were finally ready to finish him off. The grand finale had finally arrived, only instead of grand, it was desolate and lonely. Cracked grey lips drew back from yellowed teeth in a mirthless smile.

First came a sense of vertigo as he was hoisted from the ground by a tremendous force, and then more pain. His scorched flesh couldn’t stand being touched, and the pain that shot through his body as he was slammed onto a soft, yet sturdy surface was nearly unbearable. Turbo tried to scream, but even his throat was singed and all that came out was a gravely moan.

The pain was too much for his body to handle.

The last thing he saw was a pink haze of lollipop grass far below him before everything fell into darkness.

\---

He woke.

Disorientated, he sat up to realize he was enclosed in the familiar graham cracker walls of the room he once sarcastically deemed his ‘Fungeon’. It was much the same as he had left it, except the candy bars over the window had been replaced by a shimmering pane of sugarglass, and the bed he sat on was plush and luxurious rather than a hard cot held aloft by licorice chains.

Turbo sat up, peeled back the pink (no, salmon, he corrected himself) covers, and took a seat upon the bed’s edge, letting his feet dangle a few inches above the floor. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see a piebald expanse of fleshy burns, but instead saw the same grey skin he had always known. He turned them this way and that, examining his palms, calloused from years of tightly gripping the steering wheel, and then the backs of his hands, looking at the familiar chipped fingernails and their inner layer of dirt that never seemed to leave no matter how much he washed. His gaze then fell to his body, to his white and red jumpsuit with its strangely unmarred fabric. With steady caution, he lifted his hands, pressed them lightly to his chest and then, yellow eyes widening in astonishment, slid them downward over the slight swell of his belly, across the tops of his thighs, and then ended at his kneecaps. There was no pain. Every inch of his body had been burned; his touch should have brought pain.

But it didn’t.

He was alive. He had been… _fixed_.

“S’about time you woke up.”

Turbo jolted off the bed and whirled in the direction of the sickeningly familiar voice. The voice of the girl he’d once tried to kill.

Vanellope was leaning against the cell’s closed door, arms crossed and lips drawn into a mischievous smirk. “With the way you were snoring, I thought you might never wake up. You sounded an awful lot like an old car, you know?”

“What do you want?” It was all he could say, for he knew he was defenseless. She probably had him all fixed up so she could finish him off personally in the slowest, most agonizing of all ways.

She began to walk towards him and he stiffened in response, preparing for the worst. Vanellope was just a little girl, but the two of them were about the same size, and Turbo was no strongman. If she had something on her – a weapon borrowed from Fix-It’s girl, a power-up, or anything even remotely dangerous – he knew she could take him. Turbo gritted his teeth and shrank back.

Vanellope scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Chill out, I’m not here to kill you. I just wanna chat.”

Letting his body relax, Turbo crossed his arms and pouted. “What’s there to talk about?” He shrugged and narrowed his eyes. “Nothing that I want to hear, that’s for sure.”

Vanellope’s expression softened and she took a seat on the edge of his bed. She patted the spot beside her, and when he failed to take a seat, she merely shrugged, not offended. “Turbo…”

Turbo snarled, displaying rows of sharp, yellow teeth. He turned away from her, his back towards her and his nose in the air. “Shut up, I’m not listening.”

“Turbo,” she fiddled with the hem of her candy wrapper skirt, “if you wanted a home, or, well, a place to race, you could’ve just asked.”

He dropped his arms and turned to face her, mouth hanging open in shock. “I… _what_?”

“Stealing everyone’s memories, making me into a glitch, crowning yourself king; you didn’t need to do any of that.” Her brown eyes shimmered with hurt and pity. “You didn’t have to become a Bad Guy. I’m the Princess, er, President, and if you’d just asked me I would have let you join us. I mean, just look at what Ralph and Felix have done for all those homeless –”

“Yeah, but, you know what? They can’t die in his game. There’s nothing there to kill them.” He didn’t want to hear her anymore. He didn’t want her to be kind. That just wasn’t how things worked. She should have been angry. No, he _wanted_ her to be angry. That was how he would be were their roles reversed, and her sympathy was terrifying. “If some kid crashes me off the road and I lose all my lives, it’s curtains for me.”

“But there’s a way around that.” She pointed an accusing finger at his nose. “”You yourself found it! A player once crashed you in the Nesquik swamp, right?”

Turbo nodded slowly, almost smiling at the ridiculous memory. He’d careened off the road and landed head-first in the stuff. That player had been such an awful driver that Turbo almost didn’t want to be on the avatar roster the next day. “Yeah, I remember. Kid couldn’t drive worth his sugar.”

“And after he crashed you, you were reborn at the checkpoint just like everyone else who ever gets wrecked.” She was bouncing on the bed with excitement, the springs squeaking with each rise and fall of her little body. “You coded yourself into the game so it thought you were a part of it. Your code is gone now, but we could make you a new one. You can’t really go back to being King Candy, but we can make you look like King Candy if you’d like, though I’ve got a feeling you’d rather look a lot more like yourself seeing as now you have no reason to hi–”

“Why?” grimacing at her words, Turbo ran his nails down his face in frustration, leaving pale claw marks on his skin. “Why are you doing this, I tried to kill you!” And he knew he still would if he ever had to.

Vanellope’s gaze was like stone, solid and unmoving. But, unlike cold rock, there was warmth within its depths. “Forgiveness.” She reached for his hand, but he tugged it away. “I run a different kind of government here, and if all you wanna do is be loved by the players,” she shrugged, “then I think you deserve a second chance. I don’t hold grudges, Turbo.” _I’m not you_ , her eyes silently added.

Her words hurt him in a way he didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, for he’d never felt anything like it before. It was like disappointment, but deeper, painful yet sobering and warm, an alien feeling he’d never known until now. It was not pleasant, but it was so strange, so fascinating, and it made him desperately want to say yes. To race again, to never have to hide again, and to live for what he loved; it all seemed too good to be true, and yet, he knew she spoke only the truth. Here was his dream. And to think he’d nearly killed it.

“So, what’ll it be?” Vanellope asked, her eyes hopeful. “Will you join us or…?” She trailed off, letting the silence speak for itself.

Turbo stood there, not saying anything, as he chewed on his lower lip, his eyes averted in thought. “As long as you make sure to code me in,” he reached out and gave her hand a limp shake, “I’m in.”

Vanellope leapt off the bed with a joyous gasp. “Yes! Yes! Oh man, we’re gonna have so much fun! I’ll make you back into a Good Guy, just you wait and see. Oh, but first, before we do anything, we’ve gotta design you a new outfit, because the jump suit has got to go.”

Turbo snorted and looked down at his signature outfit. “Aw man, but I like my jumpsuit.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t really fit the Sugar Rush look, you know? We’re all candy and you’re just…um, white and red with a helmet.” She laughed and poked him in the chest. “I know, we’ll program you to have a candy cane-themed outfit. Then you can keep your colors and you’ll fit in with the rest of us. Whattya say?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Turbo rolled his eyes and smiled. “Candy cane sounds alright. Just as long as it’s not salmon.”

“You can count of it that it won’t be salmon.” She winked. “Now, c’mon, we got some coding to do!”

She unlocked the door and led him out of the cell and into the interior of the palace, skipping along the halls and humming happily to herself.

Turbo still felt little for her, but he thought that perhaps in time he might grow to like her, even love her, if his ego would allow. But he did know that he would finally be able to do what he loved without having to cheat in order to get it. Having it all fair and square was a comforting feeling. He didn’t have to pretend he was someone he wasn’t, or slink around for fear of being caught, or hurt others to get what he wanted. He could just be Turbo, that ‘Turbotastic’ guy who loved to race.

For the first time in a long time, Turbo truly felt happy.


End file.
